stickyphilosopherhttps://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com
Social Commentary / ArtFri, 18 Aug 2017 03:12:16 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/fd654b18e34f4e0f81b15ac8cf79040e?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs2.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngstickyphilosopherhttps://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com
The End of Historyhttps://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2017/05/12/the-end-of-history/
https://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2017/05/12/the-end-of-history/#respondFri, 12 May 2017 18:38:58 +0000http://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/?p=2463Continue reading →]]>The End of History

Let us remove all history.
Let us erase all tradition.
Let us purge ourselves of every story
until we arrive at this moment…
Adrift, but free of ancient ties.

Let us round all edges.
Let us soften the contrast between us.
Let us muddle all hues.
Let us blend in, fit in and slide in.
Let’s let everything go until
each and everything about us is
going, going…gone.

Historically Ambiguous Art

Let us forget the names of every bridge.
Let us forget the names of every street.
Let us forget the names of every building.
Let us forget the names of every river, stream and creek.
Let’s not rename but un-name everything.

Let us void anything referencing any moment
from any past anywhere at any time.
Then we’ll meld together and hum.

Let us make music into a single note…
A buzzing droning sound without words.
It’s what we’ll hear in our heads
after we’ve freed ourselves from history.

Let’s unburden ourselves of words by severing their roots.
Let’s excuse ourselves from all languages.
Let’s build another tower of babble and hum.
But then, what is that?

There’s quite a show happening
on our Advent Wreath.
An Advent Wreath arranged on a white oval plate
with a cushion of evergreen leaves
and twigs with red-orange berries.
An Advent Wreath sitting
in the middle of the kitchen table.

There are two black specks rappelling
down the candle sticks!
And another speck of spider stringing
tiny silky lines from the pink one
to the three purple ones.
Three trapeze artists rehearsing,
with the greatest of ease,
for the annual Christmas circus.

But of course not!
There’s frost sparkling on the lawn chair.
But in the spring, I’ll be there, half-bare,
coffee steam rising to boost you home.

Gregory Zeorlin 12/1/2016 @ 7:45am

SHARE this poem if you wish….

]]>https://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/12/01/out-there/feed/0zstickIsland-Spaceship-Mall Planethttps://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/11/22/island-spaceship-mall-planet/
https://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/11/22/island-spaceship-mall-planet/#respondTue, 22 Nov 2016 21:21:53 +0000http://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/?p=2419Continue reading →]]>I recently entered a colossal glass roofed shopping mall spreading over acres of land. The structure seemed like something in between an island and spaceship or a mall planet closely orbiting earth. I generally avoid these environments as my spacesuit isn’t equipped to endure the atmosphere. The gasses generated from such places suit the aliens who look like me but require another type of atmosphere to exist. Prolonged exposure to the mall planet’s atmosphere causes both people and aliens to succumb to impulse buying behaviors.

While walking on the surface of mall planet the sensors on my spacesuit detected fumes gassing from $800 dollar leather purses. I notice many aliens carry credit cards and other charging devices in these show bags to continue generating high pressured debt. But carefully designed exoskeletons allow these aliens to carry the debt burden while maintaining an expressionless look. Their deadpan faces are similar to the photographs displayed in the mall of fashion models wearing designer clothes while carrying highly coveted and priced handbags. But who noticed these trophy bags since most aliens walk with heads titled down to gaze at communication devices? Some aliens carry the trophy purses to the mall planet while wearing pajamas just to sit and drink caffeine.

Magical Purses

As I venture deep into this unfamiliar planet I realize it is filled with millions of pieces of designer space debris. The openings on each side of the tarmac grant access to vast showy warehouses where pulsing music, shimmering homing devices and blinking beacons guide aliens to boots, polished metal trinkets, gilded suits and more. It’s all available and acquisition requires only a credit card. I’m relieved as warehouse workers evaluate my spacesuit and decide I am not one of the aliens. These semi-robots sharply reduce their pre-purchase dialog with me (which gets modified depending on what exoskeleton an alien wears).

Gilded Suits

The island-spaceship-mall planet defies common sense. I see palm trees nearly hovering in space inside glowing blue glass boxes. White flags hang above these full-sized artificial trees and serve as antennas guiding shoppers to the correct designer space debris depots. Some consider these flags as displays of public art. The flags are without color or content and fill the void above the fake palm trees. The trees and the flag mean absolutely nothing. Perhaps this is to remind us we are nothing until we buy something? Buy something, put the exoskeleton on, and fit in. To be an alien means we’ll learn to bear crushing debt and even feel normal racing around frantically in automobiles costing as much as some homes after departing from the mall planet.

Hovering Fake Palm Trees

I did see a pair of $215 dollar shoes I liked. I’m not sure, but my spacesuit may have temporarily malfunctioned allowing me to detect leather scent which weakened my logic. Or, the flag-antenna system successfully signaled “BUY ME” data into my brain. Fortunately a defense system in my brain will override it and guide me to a thrift store. I will eventually find those shoes in a thrift store where out of fashion space debris gets reacquisitioned by people living down on earth.

As Black Friday approaches (and all variations and renditions released by the alien mother ship), I wish all fellow humans good luck and good shopping. Let’s buy stuff to cram into our closets and rented storage units! Buy even more stuff to leave in our automobile trunks until we remember to carry it into our cluttered lives. Or…RAISE YOUR SPACE DEBRIS SHIELDS! But…eventually we will succumb to the aliens vast marketing power.

…..High on my gift wish list this year….. the before you “go” toilet spray gift-set that cloaks my stink before I let it go. And all imaginary readers who made it to this point wish I used that toilet spray before I posted this c#%p. Too late.

Now get out and buy something you didn’t need! And if all else fails remember…Things Sell Better With Jesus(Yes you can buy this sticker/note-card…See! The aliens on the Mall Planet got me to make a sales pitch before Black Friday).

Things Sell Better With Jesus

So….Peace, love and happiness to those who celebrate for many reasons between mid-November and January 1st.

]]>https://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/11/22/island-spaceship-mall-planet/feed/0zstickMagical PursesGilded SuitsHovering Fake Palm TreesThings Sell Better With JesusStarting With the 38 Bushttps://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/10/21/starting-with-the-38-bus/
https://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/10/21/starting-with-the-38-bus/#commentsFri, 21 Oct 2016 21:05:05 +0000http://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/?p=2404Continue reading →]]>(This layout is not what I want but I don’t know how to correct it. But, this post is so long that only imaginary readers and me, myself and I will read the entire thing anyway. So…I’ll not sweat the invisible stuff).

This post recalls a day well spent drifting around San Francisco using public transportation. I take notes as I ride and sometimes they turn into buzz hacking songs. (I’ll post a link to a song at some point for my imaginary listeners out there in digi-world).

Starting With the 38 Bus

On the Number 38 rapid bus route going towards the Pacific Ocean, I watch mad men on Geary Street scream at pedestrians or themselves, depending on the moment. No one makes eye contact with these unpredictable souls. No one else talks on this bus heading west. Everyone messes with cell phones. So I sit and stare or scribble hurriedly about what I see, hear and smell. I’ll tell mostly the truth, but fiction, or at least my imagination, rides with me, too.

To my right, a mother reads aloud to her daughter as horns on the street blare “Watch out!”
She hears nothing except her daughter’s voice. I wonder what choices got them here on this commuter bus right now?

“Never Mind” was quickly written with black spray paint on a concrete retaining wall at Geary and Presidio Street.
But the recorded voice on this bus I’m riding says, “Please hold on.” Now I’m not sure what I should do. So I continue to ride towards the ocean blue. Or at least that’s what I hope it will be.

Lily’s Magic Alterations and Tailoring at Geary and Stanyon Street is across the street from a Cross Fit training gym where fit men
jump rope looking out the door on Geary Street. This bus ride is my temporary alteration. “Please hold on” says the bus voice as the bus doors close and people find seats.

At 6th Street and Geary on old woman wearing a men’s gray felt jacket picks white cat hair off the sleeves one by one. She gently flicks each hair towards the bus and never looks up. If you didn’t realize what she was doing, you’d just think she’s crazy. Not everyone is crazy out there or in here on the bus.

At 29th Street and Geary, a man with hair in a tight bun drags on a cigarette while nursing a to-go cup, but I’m not sure it’s coffee he’s sipping. I’ll keep riding on to 48th Street, but at 44th Street, Geary slopes down quickly. I finally see where the ocean meets the ground.

At Lands End the coffee is good, dark and includes refills. I shall quake with caffeine before I touch the ocean with my fingers. My coffee buzz counters the slow methodical moves of tai chi practitioners. I watch them as the surf crashes on the beach behind me.

There was a man at Lands End who screamed at the land, sky and ocean. His rage is directed everywhere at everything and everyone.
He took our attention and for a moment, became bigger than the ocean.

Lands End

If I could surf, would I be free? What if I don’t surf until I’m seventy? Would the fish laugh as a shark made a meal of me? “Please hold on” I imagine the bus voice saying now. I could sit all day at Lands End. I could pretend I’m a local obscure poet. But the 28 bus route waits to cart me to the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s not a sacrilege to say God hangs ten at the ocean of nature devotion. So I will imaginary surf on the 38 bus to Park Presidio Boulevard and switch to the 28 bus. But I can’t be late because I’m just drifting, looking and listening to whatever comes along. Yes, I’m a well-kept man on vacation. But, “Please hold on” says the magic voice from the bus. Oh, that magic lady voice does so care for all of us.

Surf beach near Cliff House

At the bus stop for the 28 bus, a shirtless tattooed man’s back carries, I suppose, an image of Jesus. As if anyone knows what Jesus might look like? He prances on the tips of his shoes at the stoplight while others step aside adding distance from this mad man. He sips bright red liquid from a clear plastic bottle and returns it to a side pocket in his backpack. Maybe this is a modern-day Last supper, but I didn’t see any bread or apostles. “Please hold on” said the magic voice as the bus rolled on. Perhaps God is testing us. God, he, she…a street bum and maker of a cathedral from a wave at Lands End. “Oh behave!” my Queen Anne might say if she rode this bus with me. I’d better be careful or I might hear heavenly voices no one sees.

I exit the 28 bus where everyone flees to see the Golden Gate Bridge equipped with selfi-sticks opened and ready. I attempt two hand-held pictures of myself with bridge and delete both. I’ve run across the bridge before, maybe twice or even four times. But this time only my eyes will cross the Golden Gate Bridge. Am I lazy at sixty? If I was on the bus a voice would now cut in and say, “Please hold on.” So see? Now I am hearing the magic lady voice without riding the bus, be it route 38 bus or 28 bus. But I feel great on this day of riding and walking. It’s a day of retreat.

I’m back on the 28 bus heading to the 1 bus. “No Stops or Turns” a sign says near the Golden Gate Bridge. “Please hold on.” We do until we can’t hold on. Then we let go. On I go to California Street where I’ll exit and take the 1 bus. All this effort made just to head towards the Powell Street cable car. It’s OK, I’m a tourist.

Once off the 1 bus a short walk is made to the cable car. The car’s empty and the conductor sits on a bench smoking an electronic cigarette. “Get on if you want. Sit or stand, whatever you want” he tells me as vapor leaves his mouth. I ride the cable car to enjoy the sounds of the antique machinery. This turn of the century technology could have gone electric by now. But the clattering operating levers and smoking wooden breaks makes the ride more than transportation.

The now on duty conductor says to a co-worker, who hops on to ride but is off duty, “He (referring to another employee not present) came on like a rock star.” “But they won’t keep him. He can’t handle the pressure” he says while ringing the bell on the cable car like a jazz percussionist.

The end of the cable car line is one block away. The next riders wait at the turn around point. I exit early and walk back to the Hotel Nikko where doormen smile at each customer passing through the door. I ride a polished elevator to the 19th floor where I get a bird’s eye view of a magic crazy city. “Please hold on” down there. But it’s obvious many people have lost their grip.

Oh you know I want to believe
in something more
than me or you.
I want to believe in something,
more than us.

But this thing called religion.
Well I’m not sure I trust
all it’s made up to be.

I’ve said it once
and I’ll say it once more…
Not sure God entered through
any church door.

But don’t slam that door on me.
I’ve been wrong so many times before.
Or maybe the door is open wide,
so vast it’s unseen.
As if we’ve walked in and out,
and out and in not even knowing it.
And God’s unknown too…

Or maybe the door only exits
as an opening to the outside world,
where God’s knowing, watching and waiting.

]]>https://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/10/18/knowing-watching-waiting/feed/0zstickGrace Cathedral Labyrinth, San Francisco, CA. Art Isn’t a Shelterhttps://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/10/06/art-isnt-a-shelter/
https://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/2016/10/06/art-isnt-a-shelter/#respondThu, 06 Oct 2016 15:19:09 +0000http://stickyphilosopher.wordpress.com/?p=2388Continue reading →]]>Art, regardless of its form, is dead. Art has always been dead. The romanticized view of art includes giving art a soul, a spirit or even an unexplained energy. But art is dead, has no pulse and is cold. Art is a concept, a thing, a string of words, musical notes, an inanimate object, a product sold in the art market, a commodity. I’ve kept a studio practice for over 30 years and this idea of lifeless art is fairly new for me and a little unsettling if I only stay on the surface.

Clouds For Lease.

But if I dig below the surface this lifeless thing called ART does enhance life. It can introduce us to a range of thoughts and emotions. However we should not tag the actual emotions or feelings to art. Tag them to ourselves. This is what art does…It’s a door that we choose to open to get access to our emotions, feelings and ways of seeing. Passage through this door is often a luxury. We wouldn’t pass though the art door if we were seeking food or shelter. Art does not feed us. Art is not food. Art is not a shelter.

Finally, I note the coldness of art…the lack of a pulse. Art is not alive. Even dancing human bodies are only a series of motions that end. Those artists who sacrifice all for their art…forgoing marriages, children and strong commitments to other people end up alone. They become just another notation in an art history book or the maker of some thing in a private or public collection. They create a void in their lives that art cannot fill.

I am an artist. I make things and write poetry (www.ZeorlinArt.com) but none of it has a soul. I am also a husband and father…and it is this part of my life that fills my heart and soul.

Try to avoid going beyond the comfort zone.
Don’t ever trip or take a tumble.
Do what we know over and over again,
for a while we’ll even avoid some troubles.

Shun all those questions we cannot answer.
Let’s just know what’s already well-known.
Limit our quest and be the very best,
at spinning on our own point of center.

Don’t enter a room full of strangers
lest we lose our sense of importance and control.
The world is big, even bigger than us,
such realization is a blow to our fragile egos.

We’re creatures of habit, me and you,
we avoid what seems foreign or nearly new.
But I’m going to trip and tumble, just you watch.
Or join me just beyond the lines of the comfort zone.

Do you want to try something new?
Step out of a rut we’ve made so long and way too deep?
Over and over we form neat lines and rows
before going complacently to prepaid graves with tombstones.

Let’s be brave for once or even twice.
Why not be set free while we’re still living?
Sing a song, do a dance, write a poem, take a chance
of stepping beyond what’s already known.

Life’s troubles will eventually find us, ready or not.
And deepest dreams will fail to appease us.
We’ll toss and we’ll turn or try to run away,
from many things we’ve trapped too long inside us.

What does it take to jump beyond the comfort zone?
Tomorrow’s too far away and yesterday’s long gone.
If you wait till things seem perfect you’ll miss another chance
and get buried head to toe, in the comfort zone.

Gregory Zeorlin 8/8/2016 @ 11am

The adult world is a place of people set in our ways who become skeptics and cynics. We avoid change out of the fear making mistakes and not looking perfect. We focus on our public image at the cost of neglecting our human spirit. We miss out on doing things that could enrich our lives even if we must trip sometimes to do them.